Our Place in Time

Let me tell you something about myself. Before my imagination takes control and I start weaving a wreath of words for you. Let me do this before you reach any hasty conclusion and I begun to drift away. Into my sleep of no dreams.

I have been walking for so long now. I am tired. I need to catch a nap, drink some beer, and have some of that sumptuous fried chicken from the place near Green Park. What was its name now? I need to take a deep breath and stop dreaming about flinging red pamphlets in the Parliament one day. I need to start working towards a home with huge, verdant lawns, a wife who looks ravishing in saris and bindis, and two kids (twins preferably) who are as much of a nuisance as they are fun. I need to take care of you and others like you. Very importantly, I need to stop my relentless assault on your patience and prevent myself from looking at the world through my looking glass. I need to, for once, really let go. Yes, all this and more.

I am noting it all down but, as might be apparent, I have a way of shelving my own rules and plans when they become too tedious. I try to pass it off as novelty. But before any of that happens, I have planned a little detour for you. No, I won’t take no for an answer. I know you prefer the hustle of Café Morrison in South-Ex and the bustle of Berco’s in Connaught Place. The ambience of the coffee shop in Khan Market and the comfort of garishly coloured bean bags behind the plush windows of the M-Block market in Greater Kailash. I realise now how much you love the mundane routine of the people I despise (or I think I despise). And the trappings which such a life can afford – the razzmatazz, the gossip, the glamour, and the glitz. But, my dear, you have to relent just this one time. Close your eyes and I will paint a pretty picture. We’ll decide then. Deal?

Come away with me to this place I have been to. It’s somewhere in Delhi. I don’t know the name but I have been there often. I catch a bus and it drops me at its gates. Just 10 rupees. Sometimes I have to walk but I have the knack of finding my way. Don’t let that take away anything from what I have planned for you. It’ll be fun, I promise. We shall waltz (nay, walk) in through the revolving gates and marvel at this oasis in the midst of a city that seems to be bursting at its seams. As soon as we leave the road where brightly coloured and flashy cars zip past huge upper crest bungalows (no wonder the place is called Jor Bagh), we will be in a world of our own. Crumbling tombs, archways, and courtyards cause the place to reek of history, heritage, and in my definition, culture. Perhaps, the Sheesh Gumbad will have some story or a royal scandal to tell us about through its guarding djinn. Huge palm trees shall vie for our attention and bow down in obeisance. The mighty peepal trees, if in the mood for graciousness, might sway around and shed their last remaining dry, withered leaves in order to carpet the damp grass beneath our feet. The sun shall have already breathed its last, leaving a warm reddish glow in its wake. You will see the Moon in the distant horizon, through the white, leaf less branches of the dead trees. Already so yellow, it’ll seem as if the Sun rubbed off some its colours on it in order to continue living in the night. A few stars will twinkle and wink knowingly. They are always up for interesting gossip.

Lovelorn couples can be seen making their way back to the motorcycle stands, the more courageous ones amongst them snuggling up to each other in order to escape the dull Delhi chill. Retired civil servants, their pride still too proud to accept humility as a virtue, are out for their evening walks, dressed smartly in Nehru jackets and starched kurta pyjamas. They are accompanied by their suave wives who have streaks of grey in their hair and are looking every bit elegant in their cotton saris (and pashmina shawls tossed over their small shoulders). Disgruntled executives have come here too; their laptop bags and blackberries still in tow, straight from work or perhaps after bunking it, wanting to catch a breath of fresh air before they head back into the smog and dust. Insanely rich Punjabi girls can be seen ‘exercising’ in Reebok/Adidas track suits and instructing their minions about a party at the farm house, either over the phone or in person. Foreign dignitaries are littered all over the place, their small bratty children as bit bratty as our own. They speak French, English, German, Italian, Mandarin, and even, if we are lucky, Batak Toba. Young girls share gossip and scandals about their jaded love lives and imminent break-ups. Dogs, no expensive dogs, of all shapes, sizes, and breeds are encouraged by their retainers to create havoc and scare away the small children, and sometimes fearsome looking Sikhs who are enjoying the last moments of a well deserved picnic party. Some foul mouthed school kids scare away the birds returning to their nests and pass obscene remarks about the school sweetheart, whom they have now pronounced to be a slut.

But all this we shall ignore. I will take you to my favourite place there. It’s a bench. One of its legs is missing so someone has very kindly put a stone underneath. Don’t worry. I promise it won’t be uncomfortable. And as soon as the yellow lamps have come on, you will realise why I brought you there. The light won’t be too bright as the leaves of the lone deodar struggle to strain most of it. There will be a wall right in front of us, remnant of some tomb probably, with elaborately carved niches, a narrow cobbled pathway bordering it. Joggers, lovers, and tourists will slowly amble past, looking smug in each other’s, and their own, company. Uncles and aunties too. But if you do not want their prying eyes to look our way, we can always sit by the pond. If you stay just long enough, curious ducks will make their way towards us, their eyes shining with hope. Of course, we won’t be having anything to feed them. They will quack their loud irritating quacks and swim away disapprovingly, their webbed feet making them look like awkward swimmers. Holding up their beaks in dignity and puffing up their feathers, they will retire for the night to the island of green in the middle of the pond.

When you have relaxed a bit, I shall breathe in your smell and feel intoxicated yet again. I shall light up, in spite of your disapproving look, and tell you how, if you might have come here some other day, you might have found me engrossed in a book under the shade of the peepal tree not far from the ducks. How I still have a leaf from it tucked away somewhere. I shall tell you how I have often thought about discussing political essays with like minded friends under the lamp behind us. (All of us will swear by the Communist Manifesto of course). How, though a loner I might be, I still long for the company of such friends. You might go tsk tsk and prompt me to initiate another line of conversation. To quote Ghalib or Momin (not Shelly or Frost or Shakespeare), whose verses made such places in time larger than life and disinterest you tremendously.

Having done so, I shall try to save some face and shamefully confess that though I don’t have the intellect to appreciate them as I would like to, it still doesn’t take away anything from the beauty of their creations. You might look at me appreciatively and decide whether this was one of the reasons you fell for me in the first place. What reason that might be I can not tell. If I’m lucky, a twinkle will light up your eyes and gradually break through your defence by means of that ill-disguised dry sarcastic smile. You might shiver occasionally but I will choose to ignore that because you look so beautiful with a red nose. (The voice gets huskier). I shall then lean back and close my eyes to the world for sometime for I can never manage without a bit of melodrama. You’ll choose to rest your head on my shoulder and look for a comfortable spot to nestle it.

Soon it will be time for us the leave. The watchmen will come tapping their lathis and shoo us off. It will be cold by now and the shawl must be dug out. I prefer the shawl while you have a thing for my jacket. We head our separate ways, having mumbled some inconsequential goodbyes. I can see your small frame retreating back into its world. Your shoulders give away your knowledge of my reluctance to leave. But you sigh inwardly and make it a point not to turn back. I sulk for sometime but realisation dawns soon enough and causes me to head towards my corner of the city.

For a moment in time, the ephemerality of it notwithstanding, our worlds and the ideas and opinions in them will clash. But fortunately, it’ll help us let down our defences and stifle our presumptions. Allow us a different perspective so that we can go back, same yet altered. So that we can still love what we loved but also what we can love. Without killing the excitement that is the harbinger of change. This could be our place in time. I know it’s not a beautiful picture. But a pretty one it is. So what do you say? Is it a deal?

Love's Surfeit

Disclaimer – Fact or fiction? This is definitely where the lines blur. My first dig at what people have termed fiction. It's a bit lengthy. So beware. Go on. Taste the pot purée. And get depressed.

Marvin Brewster did not have any inclination to visit the India that had been dished out to him by means of Nat Geo and Discovery documentaries. He was a pure bred American, having no liking for either Indian spirituality or its extremism. But his pig headed boss was adamant. No one else was suitable for the job at hand. Marvin tried to swear by drinking binges and sex escapades. But the entire rigmarole proved to be in vain. He soon found himself packing his bags for an unasked and much undesired trip to the Indian heartland.

After a bone breaking journey in the economy class, his flight landed at IGI Airport. A darker than brown man stood waiting for him, placard held high. The New Nabobs, thought Marvin. The company had been generous with the lodgings. The room was lavish and he was thankful for that. He had no karmic desires to spend a minute more in the tropical sun than was absolutely necessary. But within two days of sweltering in the Delhi heat, the evenings started to become exceedingly restless. With utmost reluctance, he got himself a Delhi guide book. There were scores of places to visit. Mosques, forts, tombs, minarets – all abounded in copious quantities. But some paranormal force flipped the pages to an ancient mausoleum. It was Sunday the next day and Marvin made up his mind to visit the place.

Humayun’s Tomb, Marvin read on the brass plaque, had been built by Haji Begum in the memory of her beloved husband, the Mughal emperor Humayun. Now that he stood near the mausoleum of supposedly undying love; he felt suddenly weak, almost dehydrated of all vitality. He had spent his years dilly dallying with women of all sorts, always being careful enough to let them get too close. His sense of seclusion was almost on par with Pink’s Wall. He had mocked his lesser than mortal friends who had somehow managed to fall in love, never failing to chide them for their foolishness. “There is no such thing as love”, Marvin used to propound. “It’s all about compromises, adjustments and sacrifices”. The tomb had very subtly made him realize something to the contrary. We would always end being social, animals or not. He wondered if he would be stupid enough to build a monument in someone’s remembrance. More than that, he wondered if he could love someone like they talked about in the poems. Like he secretly wished he could. Little did he know that he was about to find that out.

Exhausted more by the exploration than the unrealized realization, he settled on one of the benches. It was time for some much delayed introspection. But before the bane of nostalgia could sink in and consume Marvin in his entirety, a remarkably lovely girl sat down beside him. She must be in her early twenties, thought the quintessential Marvin. She wore a light green cashmere pullover. A body hugging Levi’s jeans highlighted the contours. Blue sneakers completed the look. She was not beautiful in a gorgeous fashion. But one could not resist appreciating the simple beauty which she seemed to exude. And Marvin was only human. He succumbed to the charm.

He was the one who initiated a conversation. Her name was Akanksha Nair. She was a student of history at the Delhi University. She had come there to actually feel the place they had been reading about. Within a few minutes, Marvin found the preconceived notions, about nothing in general and everything in particular, melting into nothingness. It was bound to happen, more sooner than later. India was not just about tribals, vegetarians, and stray cows after all. It had a suave and sophisticated side to it, a facet which the Indians propagandized whenever an opportunity presented itself. Akanksha was living proof of that. Her upbringing had been liberal and she was the quintessential free spirit; Indian in essence, cosmopolitan in everything else. Marvin was almost reveling in his own stupidity as his superstitions about India were proved to be just that, one by one.

The unsaid minutes turned into hours and soon the strange twosome found themselves being shooed away by the watchman. Kal subah saat baje aana. As if by some unspoken agreement, Marvin and Akanksha found themselves sharing the same bench the next morning. Conversation was just a few whispers away. And so was love; or so it seemed. The topics fluctuated from conservative to erotic, traditional to exotic, chic to flamboyant; and from love to betrayal. Work was somehow forgotten. Books were bagged with the same nonchalance. A strange couple ended up being ogled by everyone in tow. But they seemed to exist in a parallel universe. The unasked and much undesired trip was extended by a week. Then another. A job was quit somewhere, presumably in search of something that is supposedly more important. Without each other’s consent, both of them fell deeply, passionately in love with each other. It was the love we love reading about. The way it is described by Shakespeare. The way it is always mingled with predicament and tragedy. The way it should always be, regardless of boundaries or conventions.

Whispers were shared. Walks were walked. Lives were opened up to enormous possibilities. Possibilities limited to the diminishing horizon.

As with any other kind of perfection, romance like this always comes to a pre mature end. It can not but be so. Marvin and Akanksha soon began to realize the same. They knew they had to part ways, sooner or later. It was best if the moment was not delayed by perceptible amounts. And so they didn’t. Romeo and Juliet might not have been that approving of their decision. But it was meant to be. Marvin flew back to America and took up his job again. Akanksha resumed her studies and went on to obtain a doctorate in history. Both of them married well, or so it seemed to everyone else. Life continued as it should have, albeit none of them could actually forget the other. Ever. Without realizing the same.

Whispers flew away by like nothings. Responsibilities were shouldered. Commitments met. None thought of disregarding the mundane lives fate had ordained for them. Quite aptly.

Akanksha was now the mother of an 18 year old son. She had unknowingly christened him Avin, a name which bore an uncanny resemblance to someone she knew long ago. She taught history at one of the prestigious colleges in the city. It was the weekend. Her husband was not in town. Not very unusual. She decided to pay a visit to the Humayun’s Tomb, a place she frequented often. It had nothing to do with a passionate affair she had shared with a certain someone so long ago. It reminded her of everything she had asked for in life; and got. Every time, the place seemed to throw up a nook which she hadn’t explored. A mural she hadn’t appreciated. An inscription she hadn’t romanticized. An engraving she had not felt with her own soft hands.

She paid for her ticket at the booth. The teller had come to recognize her. He smiled and she returned it with equal honesty. She had decided to explore the western wing of the tomb today. She climbed up the stairs and walked to the western wing in the sweltering heat. Beads of salty sweat clung to her beautiful face. Her sari sashayed in the soft breeze. She had only begun to realize the beauty of it; all over again, when she saw a lone figure sitting on the same bench she had Marvin had shared some twenty years ago. Even after all this time, there was no mistaking the silhouette. She knew it was him. She found herself jumping two steps at a time, running across the gardens to see him, just this once, lest she lost him again. This time it would have meant forever. She knew that. She knew that with uncanny certainty. And everything else paled in comparison.

Akanksha found Marvin sitting there, lost in deep thought. He saw her at the same instant. Both were left speechless for a few minutes. He simply sat there. She simply stood. What twist of fate had ordained such destiny? What cruel sacrifice awaited them round the corner? What painful walk down the memory lane? Eventually, both of them mustered enough courage to sit next to each other. Their bodies fearing proximity, lest it wouldn’t last. They shared their stories. Their love. Their lives. And then they shared those memories, secretly cherished and vehemently guarded. Trips to the bazaars. Visits to the museums. The conversations which now seemed lost amongst a thousand whispers. Tears rolled down freely. Inhibitions were shed with equal disregard. He kissed her with passion, pure and unbridled. She kissed him back. None cared what the world thought or saw. For a moment that seemed to stretch beyond eternity, two souls were lost in pain. Two hearts were bound with joy. Two bodies were entwined in passion, subtle and consuming, all at the same time.

Then just like it had been a moment ago, time rolled the dice once again. It was time to part ways at the cross roads. They got up. She draped a shawl around her shoulders. It was beginning to get cold in the evenings. He draped his arms around her, providing more warmth then anything else could. They walked the walk back, slowly measuring their steps. It seemed as if they were trying to close their eyes and then willing the world to do the same. Near the gates, he held her close to himself one last time. “If not in this one then in the next”, he whispered into her ears. She looked at him through tear streaked eyes and nodded meekly. Then she shook the memories clinging to her still lovely hair and walked through the gates, never looking back. A full minute passed before Marvin moved. Then he trudged back through the revolving bars, never to return.

Behind the curtains, away from the glamorous limelight, two stupid souls talked about it all. They thought their words. They lived their lives. They mourned their sorrow. All in a few fleeting minutes. One put his shoes back on. The other draped a shawl around the other’s small shoulders. They too walked back the walk. They too promised to relive the lives which destiny had so unabashedly exposed to them. They too parted their ways, never turning back.

Dilli Meri Jaan

Each time I visit Delhi, it never fails to wow me. It is always a different facet which rears its head and somehow manages to amuse me in an inexplicable fashion. And almost always, I can give no reason why I have come to like this city. Is it the ever crowded markets and malls? Or is it the alarmingly quiet VIP roads? Perhaps it is none of this or maybe it is everything.

This time I chanced to stopover in Delhi for 6 hours. My flight for Ahmedabad was due to take off at 6 in the evening. I touched down (flying from Lucknow) at 12 in the afternoon. Shaktimaan played host to the holy trinity of Chiku, Chepu, and Red. Great host, I must confess. No matter how much she might gloat over this.

Anyways, we had lunch at Shaktimaan's place, got to visit Humayun's tomb (the highlight of the small stay) and also had the good fortune to listen to some hard core Delhites bitching about their ex-boyfriends. All in all, a very satisfying 6 hour stay for me. We left Delhi somewhere around 7. I could not help but wonder when I would get to visit this irritatingly incomprehensible city again.